


I Will Not Eat The Darkness

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:13:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of El's abduction and the months of worry and indecision that came before, Neal finds himself alone and increasingly ill while Peter struggles to balance his anger and concern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Not Eat The Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/profile)[**dotfic**](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/) for the beta and to Over The Rhine for the title. This is my first foray into writing White Collar fic, and it was written for [](http://kriadydragon.livejournal.com/profile)[**kriadydragon**](http://kriadydragon.livejournal.com/)'s [prompts](http://collarcorner.livejournal.com/13575.html?thread=316679#t316679) (a combo of the first two) at [](http://collarcorner.livejournal.com/profile)[**collarcorner**](http://collarcorner.livejournal.com/).
> 
> No major warnings, but see the end note for a possible trigger warning.

Neal's new home away from home was a small room with no windows, just a desk, a chair and many, many boxes. The file boxes were stacked six-high, and there was just enough room for Neal to sidle between the rows to get in and out of the room. It was better than a jail cell, especially considering that he got to go home to his rooms at June's house in the evening, but sometimes he felt like he'd been sentenced to solitary confinement.

Then again, Neal couldn't argue that he didn't deserve the punishment for his part in the cascading river of crap that had ended with El's abduction. He could still see Peter's face the way he'd looked when he rushed in to the sight of his house, so full of people and yet empty of the only person he wanted to see. He could also see Peter's face thirty-six hours later when he held Elizabeth in his arms. Neal had felt weak with relief when they found her, relatively unhurt other than some bruises on her face and reddened skin on her wrists, and he hung back as Peter embraced her.

Peter's eyes were closed at first, his whole being focused on his wife, his arms tight around her back, her hands grasping onto his shirt. But then Peter opened his eyes and looked at Neal, and the look was hard, as cold as it had been back in the kitchen. The kitchen of the home Neal had broken into so few days before. The memory of that look and the knowledge of his complicity made Neal feel sick.

In the end, Keller had been killed when he turned his weapon on the FBI, Mozzie had disappeared into the ether, and there was nothing with which to charge Neal. Peter took a week of leave to stay home with El, and Neal was assigned to work on cold cases, combing through boxes of files and evidence trying to find a way to prove his own usefulness. Diana and Clinton both visited him in his "new office" on Monday, but after that they got busy with a case that took them out of the office, and Neal was truly on his own.

Another time, Neal would've been delighted by the chance to rifle through department records, looking for traces of his own aliases and those of old friends and acquaintances, laughing at the idiots who got it all wrong and admiring the true masters of the craft. He would've been fascinated by the notes, the stacks of pictures, the bagged evidence. As it was, he didn't feel like he had the capacity to be delighted or fascinated or do anything more than be present.

The previous few months had been stressful as hell, and Neal was used to that, thrived off of it sometimes. But usually the days and weeks and months of work and worry and justified paranoia ended with the rush of getting away with something--elation, travel, ultimately time to rest and recover from it all. This time, there was no thrill, no change of scenery, no rest other than what he got in his bed at night.

June was gone, off to Europe for a long vacation, so Neal was alone there too. He walked around the dark house at night sometimes, or sat outside watching the lights of the city, or lean on the balustrade to look down at the foot traffic below, the way it thinned out as night set in but never quite stopped. He wished he had Mozzie next to him, distracting him with conversation, ranting tangents and all.

\---

When Neal started feeling like crap, he thought it was just the stress and the lack of sleep dragging him down, telling him he wasn't 22 anymore. He hadn't been eating well for the last month--enough to keep going, but when he was on edge it was hard to eat a lot. He thought it had something to do with his survival instincts--always be light and ready to run. When a job was over, when Neal was as safe as he ever was, he'd always make up for it, lay around in a hotel ordering room service breakfasts and going out for indulgent dinners, stocking up his energy reserves for the next time.

Now, the crisis was over, the deal done for worse rather than better, and Neal should've been able to relax, spend his evenings at home cooking, building himself back up over the course of the week. There was no time crunch at work, no reason he couldn't take a full hour for lunch, go hit up one of the food trucks for a sandwich. And he did, sometimes, but he always got full long before he'd eaten any kind of a reasonable portion. His stomach felt full all the time, a rock of guilt weighing him down even as his suits became far too loose.

He knew it wasn't good. He liked being slim, needed that flexibility and maneuverability often enough in both his past and present employment, but he prided himself on his strength and energy as well. There was a line between being fit and trim and looking like an emaciated figure in a medieval painting, and when Neal looked in the mirror he thought he was getting a little too close to the latter. The small, melodramatic voice inside of Neal, the one that reminded him of Mozzie, had him worried that the bad things he'd done over the years had come back to bite him in the ass in a very serious way. Something horrible, something he didn't want to think about.

When he woke up Saturday morning with a sore throat, his whole body aching and a little too warm, Neal was almost grateful. Just the flu, no big deal. He made himself tea with honey and lemon and chewed on toast, even if it felt like an exhausting chore to swallow it. He needed to be better by Monday; Peter would be back in the office, and Neal didn't know if that would put an end to his exile in solitary, but he needed to be there, needed to see Peter, needed to start proving that he'd made his decision and committed himself to doing the right thing.

More than anything else, Neal was overwhelmingly tired. He slept most of Saturday and Sunday, dragged himself out onto the terrace for a while and lay limply on a chaise lounge like some kind of invalid. He didn't have any cough medicine for his throat, but it didn't seem worth the effort of leaving the house to get something and the tea at least took the edge off the soreness. He took Advil and hoped that sleep would be the medicine he needed.

Monday morning, Neal drank two cups of coffee, wincing as they burned his tender throat, and tried to convince himself that he felt better. He was rested, after all, and after a couple more ibuprofen and a hot shower to work out some of his body aches Neal got dressed and did his best to convince himself he was on the mend.

~~~

Peter sat across the table from El and reached out to hold her hand. "I can call in. I can extend my leave, I don't have to go in."

The week had gone by so quickly, and Peter wasn't thrilled about the idea of leaving the house, leaving El. He wasn't looking forward to seeing Neal, either. He was reasonably sure that he'd figured it out--that the theft of the art hadn't been Neal's idea to start with and that, even if he’d taken far too long to do so, Neal had decided on his own that he wanted to stay on the path he'd been walking with the FBI, that he wasn't the kind of man who could live with benefiting from war crimes.

But nonetheless, Neal's actions and inactions had led to Elizabeth being kidnapped by Matthew Keller. Thinking about it, the images Peter had constructed in his head of Keller's hands on her, duct tape on her wrists, his precious wife thrown in the back of a van, sent a fresh jolt of rage through Peter. He'd always prided himself on being a reasonable man, a logical man, but the other images in Peter's head--the images of things that could've happened, hadn't happened, _thank God, thank God_ hadn't happened--made him want to hit and hurt, as if that could make up for what Elizabeth had gone through.

But Keller was already dead. And Elizabeth was fine. Her bruises were mostly faded, and she was seeing a therapist, would keep seeing her until she was ready to stop. She was resilient, perhaps more so than Peter himself.

Neal had done the most vital work in getting Elizabeth back as quickly as possible, and for that among other things Peter owed it to him to keep him out of prison. They needed to be able to work together, and Peter just hoped that he could deal with it. He and Neal, they didn't need to be friends; he didn't have to invite Neal over to dinner, he just had to be able to work with him without punching him in the face.

"Honey." Elizabeth's voice was gentle, as if Peter had been the one hurt, not her. "You really need to get going. I'll be out of here in an hour myself."

Peter squeezed her hand. "Are you sure you're ready to do that?"

"I can't sit around here hiding behind the door and holding onto Satchmo. I'm okay, and I have to live my life and do my job just like you have to do yours." She squeezed his hand and then let go and stood up. "But don't think we won't be talking on the phone about fifteen times today." She winked, and Peter felt himself relax just a little.

Peter hugged her and then left the house. The morning traffic that usually frustrated him created a welcome buffer of time, time to let go of his need to protect El and get ready to be the reasonable man he strove to be. Being inside the building felt good, a kind of normality that he'd missed.

But just as he walked into the office, he spotted Neal standing outside the door to Peter's office rather than working neck-deep in cold case files. Even while the logical side of Peter knew that Neal wouldn't be sure what was expected of him today, anger surged through Peter at the sight of him.

Peter perfunctorily waved at the other members of his team and then mounted the stairs, ready to--he didn't know what he was ready to do. He didn't look Neal in the eye, just pushed through the door to his office and let Neal follow him in. Peter hung up his jacket, fiddled with his briefcase, and then sat down and finally looked at Neal. He was still standing just inside the door, and Peter was surprised to see that he looked like crap. _That's what happens when you have a guilty conscience,_ whispered the ugly voice inside, but Peter shook it off and waved Neal to the chairs opposite his desk.

"You doing okay?"

Neal sank down into the chair and slumped for a second before straightening his shoulders. His face looked drawn, his eyes tired. "I'm fine," he said, flashing a brief smile. "Just getting over the flu."

"Should you be here? You can take a sick day if you need to, we don't need the whole office getting sick."

"I'm fine," he repeated. "And I'm not sneezing or coughing so I don't think I'm contagious." Neal looked down at his hands in his lap and then looked back up, his face tense. "How's Elizabeth?"

Peter sighed. Again, it was a war inside him: Neal had no right to ask about El, but on the other hand Peter knew he cared about her and she for him. "She'll be okay. Her bruises are mostly faded."

Neal winced at that, and for a long moment they sat in silence. "What do you want me to work on today?" Neal's voice got rough toward the end of the sentence, and he rubbed at his throat briefly before dropping his hand back to his lap.

"You may as well go back to working on the cold case files. Unless something hot comes in, I'll have to spend the day playing catch-up."

"Okay." Neal nodded. He wasn't acting like his usual self, but then this had to be awkward for him, too. He levered himself up out of the chair with what looked like effort. "Let me know if you need me for anything."

Peter restrained himself from saying _I don't think that's going to happen_ and watched Neal walk out the door and down the stairs at half his usual speed. He made a mental note to check in on Neal at some point during the day and then steeled himself to deal with his backlog of e-mails and phone calls. It was going to be a long day.

~~~

Before locking himself into his rabbit warren of file boxes, Neal went downstairs and bought a buttered bagel and a hot tea. The tea felt good on his throat, and he hoped he'd be able to deal with eating the bagel. Inside the little office, he tore off a piece of the bagel and struggled to swallow it past his sore throat. He didn't feel nauseated, exactly, and he knew he needed to eat; it just seemed to take energy that he didn't have.

Neal worked through more files, eventually taking off his suit coat as the room grew stifling. The heat made him sleepy, and he startled when he felt a hand shaking his shoulder. He blinked up at Peter's frowning face. "Peter, I'm sorry--"

"Go home, Neal. See if you can get June's cook to make you some chicken soup or something."

Neal thought about arguing that he should stay and work, thought about explaining that the house was empty, the cleaning staff only coming in every few days to keep the house from getting dusty. Instead he just nodded. "Thanks. I guess I just need a little more rest."

"Okay." Peter tensed up his jaw like he wanted to say something else but was struggling with it. "Feel better," he said finally.

Neal stood up and pulled on his jacket and threw the rest of his uneaten breakfast in the trash. As he brushed past Peter on his way out the door, Neal thought about Peter's hand on his shoulder a couple minutes before--the first time anybody had touched him in over a week. His life was feeling more like solitary confinement all the time.

By the time he got home, Neal had to drag himself up the stairs. He was sweating through his shirt, and he suspected he had a fever but he didn't think it was worth tracking down a thermometer to confirm. He took three Advils, hoping they would help him stop aching so much and work on the fever as well, and then stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt and climbed into bed, hooking one leg around the outside of the covers to help cool himself down.

He woke sometime--he didn't know if it was afternoon or night--freezing, wracked with shivers that made his whole body hurt, even while his throat was a column of heat and pain. He dragged himself to the bathroom and stood under a hot shower, leaning hard against the tile wall and occasionally tipping his head back to let some of the water trickle down his dry, aching throat. When the hot water started to taper off, he turned it off and wrapped himself inside his favorite robe. He wanted his bed, but it was far away, so he sank down onto the bathmat to rest, just for a while.

When he shuffled out of the bathroom some time later, it was dark outside, and Neal felt a little bit better. He was warm again, so he shed the robe and pulled on clean boxers and a tank shirt before rolling back into bed.

When his alarm went off, Neal sat up, his heart pounding, his whole body hot and heavy. The alarm meant get up, get dressed, go to work, but when Neal stood up his head swam and he stumbled hard, just managing to catch himself with one hand on the bedside table before he hit the ground. His knees shook, and he toppled anyway, his shoulder hitting the wall as he slid down.

Neal groped around on the table for his phone and then bent over his knees, holding his spinning head with one hand. He squinted at his phone to find Peter's name, and he knew that he should just call the office number to say he was calling in sick, but he was tired of being in solitary, so tired. He tapped the screen to dial Peter's cell and listened to it ring.

"Neal," Peter answered, his voice stern, just short of angry. "It's awfully early."

"I'm--" The word came out as a croak, and Neal swallowed to clear his throat. "I need to call in sick." Peter was quiet for a long moment, and Neal waited, he didn't know for what. "I'm sorry," Neal added.

"Are you okay? Do you need to go to the doctor?"

"I don't know." Neal was getting cold again, and he wanted the bed covers so badly, but they were so far away.

"You don't know if you need to go to the doctor or you don't know if you're okay?"

Neal wasn't sure what the question was. His head hurt from thinking and he rubbed at his forehead, his skin disgustingly slimy under his hand.

"Neal?"

"I--I don't know." Neal didn't know what else to say.

"Okay, Neal? I'm going to hang up and call June, get her to check on you."

Neal nodded into his hand and let the phone drop to his side. The house felt very big and very empty around him, but he was warm again instead of cold and even though the floor was hard against his aching body it wasn't enough to keep him from falling back to sleep.

~~~

Peter listened to June's answering machine message and then hung up. He was halfway to dialing her cell number when he remembered that she was on vacation, cruising the Mediterranean or something. Which meant that Neal was probably all alone in that house, and he sounded...not good.

"Damn." Peter put his phone down on the dresser and pulled on his pants before dropping the phone back in his pocket.

"What's wrong?" Elizabeth was still in bed but awake, sipping from the mug of coffee Peter had brought up after he got his own.

"Neal," Peter said, shaking his head. "He was sick yesterday, and he doesn't sound good."

"Oh no, and June's not there."

"Right. I'm going to go over there, haul him to the doctor or something."

"You're a good man, Peter Burke." She smiled a little over her mug, and Peter couldn't help pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Peter finished getting dressed and headed for the door. "I'll call you later."

"You better." Her words followed him down the hallway.

It was early enough that rush hour hadn't quite started yet, so Peter made his way to midtown in relatively little time. He clutched the key June had given him by his request soon after Neal had moved in with her and then let himself in. He climbed the stairs quickly and knocked quickly before he opened the door to Neal's suite. "Neal," he called out quietly, not wanting to surprise him if he was awake. "Hello?"

Peter's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, and then he saw Neal on the floor near the bed, a jumble of limbs like a dropped marionette.

"Shit." Peter hurried over and dropped to the floor next to Neal reaching out to touch his neck. His pulse felt a little weak and fast, but more worrying was the fever baking through his skin. "Neal," Peter said more loudly, patting the side of his face. "Can you wake up? Neal."

Neal groaned then, moving his head and blinking his eyes open before letting them close again. "Hey, Peter," he rasped from a raw-sounding throat.

Peter reached up to turn on the bedside lamp, needing to get a better look, and what he saw made his heart sink. "Oh, Jesus, Neal." It had been a while since Peter saw Neal in less than full clothing, and it was clear Neal had lost a significant amount of weight since then. He wasn't quite bone thin, but given his already slim build he looked gaunt, his ribs and hip bones visible where he was bent over to the side, his shirt riding up away from his boxers.

Peter had been planning to take Neal to the urgent care clinic, but they didn't open for another hour, and no way was Peter waiting that long with Neal looking so frail and ill. Peter stood up and looked around, then opened Neal's dresser drawers until he found a long-sleeved henley and some drawstring waist pants and a pair of socks. The sneakers he used when he went running were at the foot of the bed.

Peter crouched down next to Neal again and got his arm around Neal's back. "Come on, Neal, sit up. You need to get dressed." Neal obeyed groggily, and when Peter put the neck of the henley over Neal's head, Neal took over, threading his own arms into the sleeves and then clumsily putting on his socks when Peter handed them over. "Okay, you ready to stand up?"

Neal nodded, and Peter stood up slowly, his thighs burning as he tried to hold onto Neal and rise slowly enough that hopefully Neal wouldn't pass out again. Neal wavered when he got to his feet, but Peter nudged him until he could sit on the side of the bed. He guided Neal's legs into the pants and put the sneakers where Neal could shove his feet into them, and then he hoisted Neal up to stand again and Neal had the wherewithal to pull up his pants and tie the drawstring to keep them from slipping down over his narrow hips.

"Okay," Peter said, trying to sound calm. "That's good. Let's go."

"Mmm, where're we going?" Neal asked, sounding like he thought he ought to know and just couldn't quite remember.

"Don't worry about it, just focus on walking. I don't think you're light enough for me to want to carry you down a flight of stairs."

"Huh?"

Peter didn't answer, and Neal didn't ask any more questions. Neal leaned against Peter as Peter guided him down the stairs and out to the car.

Fifteen minutes later , Peter pulled in front of the closest hospital's emergency room, put his FBI placard in the windshield to keep from getting towed, and hauled a weak but cooperative Neal in through the automatic doors.

Peter's badge and Neal's state of semi-consciousness led to only a short wait, and then Peter was standing against the wall of a tiny room as the hospital staff pulled off the clothes Peter had wrestled onto Neal and snapped on a gown before inserting an IV and taking blood. In the skimpy gown, Neal's weight loss was all the more glaring, and his tracking anklet looked out of place, heavy and awkward on Neal's naked, boney ankle.

Minutes later, Peter was fending off the doctor, who wanted to talk to him out in the hallway, and the security guard, who wanted him to move his car.  He followed the doctor out of the room and flashed his badge at the rent-a-cop security guard. “I’m not blocking traffic so I’ll move the car when I’m ready. If you don’t like that you’re welcome to call the Assistant Director. You want his number?”  
   
The guard just glared and moved off, and Peter turned back to the doctor. “So, what’s going on?”  
   
The doctor, a petite woman in her fifties with graying blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, lifted one eyebrow. “That’s what I was about to ask you, Agent Burke. What’s the situation with Mr. Caffrey? Is he a prisoner? Should we have him restrained?”  
   
“No, no, he’s not dangerous.” Involuntarily, Peter flashed back to his kitchen as a crime scene, marinara sauce spilled like blood. He wasn’t sure if he really believed that Neal wasn’t terribly dangerous in his own way, but that wasn’t what the doctor meant. Peter shook himself out of his reverie. “He’s a Criminal Informant on parole, working for the FBI. He’s not violent.”  
   
“Okay, good. And you have his medical power of attorney?”  
   
“Yes, I do. Do you know what’s wrong with him?”  
   
The doctor glanced down at the chart in her hands, then back up at Peter. “We’ll have a better idea once we get the blood tests back, but I suspect that the acute problem here is infectious mononucleosis.”  
   
“Mono?”  
   
“Right. He presented with a fever of 103°, his lymph nodes are swollen, and his spleen is palpably enlarged. He’s dehydrated, and we’re giving him IV fluids plus a fever reducer. If the diagnosis is correct, he’ll be feeling a little better in a couple of hours and we’ll be able to discharge him, but he’ll be quite ill for the next few days and then it may take him at least a few weeks to get his strength back.”  
   
“I’m sensing a ‘but.’”  
   
“I’m concerned that Mr. Caffrey appears to be quite underweight. Is that normal for him?”  
   
Peter sighed. “He’s always been on the thin side, but this is new. Could it be the mono? I had it in high school, and I remember my mother constantly forcing me to eat.”  
   
“The mononucleosis has no doubt made the situation worse, but this isn’t the product of a few days of illness. Are you aware of any other conditions he may have in relation this—gastrointestinal problems or anything else?”  
   
“No, I tracked him for years before he started working for the FBI, and he’s always seemed disgustingly healthy and fit.”  
   
“Has he been under an extraordinary amount of stress?”  
   
“I--" Peter cut himself off. “The last few months have been...complicated.”  
   
The doctor made a note on Neal’s chart and then tapped her pen against the page. “Okay, we’re going to let Mr. Caffrey rest and take in those fluids while we wait for test results, and then we’ll try to get a more comprehensive history from him once he’s more coherent. If the mono test is positive and if I don’t see any evidence of other physical disease that could be causing his weight loss, I’m most likely going to get a psych consult just to make sure there isn’t anything more going on here.”  
   
Peter shook his head. “Neal’s a lot of things, but he’s not crazy. He doesn’t need a psych consult.”  
   
“I’m not saying he is, and I understand that you’re responsible for him as far as the FBI goes, but right now he’s my patient. I don’t feel comfortable with letting him walk out that door without believing that he’s in a good position to help with his own recovery. As it is, his physical resources are very low, and that’s likely why the mononucleosis is hitting him so hard.”  
   
“Okay, okay.” The idea of Neal, the most resourceful person Peter had ever come across, being low on resources gave Peter an uneasy stir in his gut. “What do we do now?”  
   
“Well, _I_ go take care of some other patients while I wait for the test results. _You_ are certainly free to wait in the waiting room, but my suggestion is that you go move your car before George over there has a fit and then go to work. We’ll call you as soon as Mr. Caffrey’s ready to be discharged or if there’s any other news, and his anklet will tell you if he goes anywhere, correct?”  
   
“Right. Are you sure I shouldn’t be here?”  
   
“With your badge, I probably can’t stop you if you insist on staying in the cubicle with Mr. Caffrey, but what he needs right now is rest and he’ll be able to do that better without an anxious FBI agent pacing the floor next to him.”  
   
“Okay. Okay, you have my number?”  
   
“I have it right here, but for your peace of mind—“ She pulled a card out of her pocket and write on the back of it. “Here’s my direct number, but please do wait for us to call you if possible.”  
   
“Thank you. I’ll expect to hear from you soon.” Peter pocketed the card and looked at the door to Neal’s room for a minute before walking away.  
   
He called El from the car while he crawled through traffic to get to the office, and she was predictably concerned.  
   
“Why don’t you bring him back here when they release him? He shouldn’t be in that house by himself when he’s so sick.”  
   
“No,” Peter answered quickly. Neal hadn’t been in their house since the night of El’s kidnapping, and Peter didn’t think he could stand to let Neal in so close. Not right away and maybe never again. “I just can’t, El.”  
   
“Hon,” she said, her voice heavy with something that wasn’t an argument but wasn’t agreement either. She was quiet for a moment and then said, “Okay, whatever you think is right.”  
   
“I’m not going to abandon him there. Between me and the rest of the team, we’ll check up on him, bring him food. He’ll be okay.”  
   
“Okay. Call me later?”  
   
“I will. I love you.”  
   
At the office, the rest of the team were concerned when Peter told them that he’d taken Neal to the hospital, but he didn’t share any details and they knew well enough not to ask. At least not yet.

\---

It was nearly noon when Peter’s cell rang, and he shooed Diana out of the office so that he could speak with the doctor in private.  
   
“What’s the situation?”  
   
“The test for mononucleosis was positive. His blood work was otherwise unremarkable with the exception of low blood sugar and slightly unbalanced electrolytes, neither of which is a surprise given how ill he is.”  
   
“And the rest of it?” Peter felt his stomach clench in discomfort. “Did somebody talk to him?”  
   
“Mr. Caffrey is awake and not in any immediate danger, so I need to respect his privacy on this. I’m ready to discharge him as soon as he has a ride home. All I can do is suggest that he follow up with his primary care physician.”  
   
Peter breathed out heavily through his nose. Having information about Neal withheld from him didn’t sit well, but he could tell that the doctor wasn’t the sort of woman who would budge. “I’ll be there in twenty.”  
   
Neal looked better, with his fever down and dressed in the clothes he’d worn to the hospital, but he still didn’t look anywhere near _good_. It looked like he’d been sitting up sideways on the gurney and then had tipped over to the side and fallen back to sleep with a bundle of folded papers clutched in his hand.

“Neal?” Peter reached out to touch his shoulder, but Neal opened his eyes and pushed himself up to sit, clearly fighting gravity the whole way.  
   
“Hi,” he said, his voice rough and weary. “Thanks for coming. I could’ve taken a cab though, if you need to go back to work.”  
   
“I don’t think we want you passed out in the back of a cab riding around Manhattan all day.”  
   
“Especially not wearing this.” Neal gestured to the uncharacteristically shabby outfit Peter had assembled, the complaint a shadow of what Neal’s level of outrage would normally be.  
   
“Well, the doctor said you’re all signed out. You ready to go?”  
   
“Oh yeah. Um, I have a prescription, some kind of cough syrup for my throat. They faxed it to the Duane Reade over near June’s house.”  
   
“I’ll pick it up. The plan is, I’ll drop you off and then come back a little later to check on you. I’ll get your prescription and pick up some food for you to have there.”  
   
“I have food, Peter.”  
   
“Really?”  
   
“Let’s go.” Neal slid to his feet from the gurney and then held onto the mattress for a moment until he looked like he had his bearings.  
   
Peter let the subject drop, but he had every intention of bringing it back up. He kept an eye on Neal as they walked out to the car--parked near the doors again, no doubt vexing the security guard. Neal buckled himself in and then slumped against the door, remaining listless and quiet for the duration of the drive. Peter parked in front of the house and looked at the stairs leading up to the front door. “You want me to walk you in?”  
   
“I’m fine,” Neal answered, his voice tired, lifeless.  
   
“I’ll be back in a few hours, and you can call me if you need anything or if you feel worse.”  
   
“Okay.” Neal opened the door and pushed himself to his feet and then walked across the sidewalk with no trace of his usual swagger. Peter watched as he climbed the stairs slowly, so slowly, before disappearing inside.  
   
Instead of merging back into traffic, Peter sat there behind the wheel, imagining Neal laboriously climbing the stairs up to his suite of rooms. He thought about how bad he’d felt when he was sick with mono at sixteen, and the quick Google search he’d done before leaving the office said that the effects only got worse with age. Peter sighed and hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. Elizabeth had said to do what he thought was right, and this didn’t feel right.  
   
Peter yanked the keys out of the ignition, hopped out of the car and jogged up the front stairs. He let himself in and rounded the corner to find Neal sitting halfway up the stairs, his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. He looked up, his face confused as Peter climbed the stairs to stand in front of him.  
   
“What’s going on?”  
   
“We’re getting some of your stuff, and then you’re coming back to the house with me.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Come on.” Neal put his hand under Neal’s elbow. “You ready to stand up?”  
   
Neal nodded and pushed himself up with one hand tight on the banister as Peter held him steady. Peter kept a hand on his back as they walked the rest of the way up the stairs. Inside the room, Neal looked like he wanted nothing more than to collapse in his bed, but Peter steered him over to sit in one of the dining chairs.  
   
“Where do you have a bag?”  
   
“Closet,” Neal said, gesturing to the far side of the room.

"Anything you want in particular?"

Neal waved off the question, so Peter took the overnight bag he found in the closet and filled it with underwear, socks, pajama pants and the few items of casual clothing Neal owned and then added his toiletries from the bathroom. A book sat on the bedside table, and Peter slipped that into the bag as well.

"You sure there's nothing else you want?"

"No." Neal stood up stiffly, and Peter kept a hand on him as they walked down the stairs. He was far steadier than he'd been that morning, but he was clearly still weak and from the heat of his skin coming through the henley it felt like his fever was on the rise again. He thought about calling El, letting her know that he was bringing Neal home, but somehow he thought that it wouldn't be a surprise to her at all.

~~~

Neal leaned his head against the cool glass of the car's window as he waited for Peter to finish up in the drug store. Peter had started asking about anything else that Neal might need, and Neal just pulled the discharge instructions sheet from his handful of papers and passed it over silently. Part of it was simple exhaustion, tinged with relief--relief that Peter had come to help him, even when things were so screwed up between them and relief that there was nothing more seriously wrong with him. The doctor had been pretty clear: he'd feel like hell for a little while longer, but he'd get better. She'd also made it clear that even though he wouldn't want to he needed to eat to build up his strength.

The instruction sheet had recommendations for Ensure and Gatorade, and it all felt vaguely humiliating, but Neal thought that maybe he was just too tired to be as embarrassed as he would otherwise be by this kind of weakness. He barely remembered the trip to the hospital; it was all a haze of dizzy, aching movement between the burst of confused relief of seeing Peter kneeling in front of him and the pinch of the nurse removing the IV from his arm. The doctor had come in then and asked him questions, her voice like soft cotton batting wrapped around steel.

He'd come back to himself enough to recognize that she was working toward having him talk to some kind of psychologist and managed to charm his way out of that. The stress of everything had been too much--the stolen art, Mozzie's plan, Keller, hiding so many things from El and Sarah and Peter and everybody else on the team, hiding other things from Mozzie, the horror of El's kidnapping and then the sudden cold of everybody freezing him out. Neal had even told the doctor the truth, minus some of the more colorful details. He hadn't purposefully underfed himself, and he had no desire to be underweight; those two things were the truth. He drank a cup of apple juice and ate a bowl of lime jello like a good boy, and she'd discharged him.

Finally, Peter got back in the car and cranked up the engine. He held out a bottle of orange Gatorade, but Neal shook his head; the last thing he wanted was to end up car sick in the middle of the BQE. He spaced out again on the ride out to Brooklyn, but he was awake enough to be aware of Peter in the car next to him. Neal knew that things weren't right between the two of them, that just because Peter hadn't left him to huddle up alone with his sickness in June's empty house it didn't mean that all was forgiven. Still, the gratitude at not having to be alone filled his chest, swelled up into his aching throat, pushed from behind his eyes like an echo of the headache that had plagued him for days.

Neal started to feel cold again and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold in the heat that was rapidly fleeing his body. Peter muttered something about forgetting to grab a jacket for him, and when they were stopped at a light Peter fished around in the back seat and handed Neal a neatly folded fleece blanket. Neal struggled to unfold it, but when he finally had it draped over his body, a handful of it pillowing his head against the cold window, he felt more comfortable than he'd been in weeks.

As he trailed Peter up the sidewalk to the house, Neal was groggy, half-asleep, his blanket wrapped around him like he was four years old, but he woke up as soon as he stepped into the house. He walked inside and stared at the kitchen--clean now, no half-cooked meal dumped on the floor like some kind of gruesome evidence, no white-faced Peter staring at him like his life had been stolen away and Neal was the thief.

Neal hurried to the first floor powder room and bent over the toilet, heaving up the remnants of juice and jello that churned in his stomach until his knees gave way, and then he flushed the toilet and stayed there breathing in the clean water smell until he was ready to stand up, rinse out his mouth, face the music. He opened the door to see Peter sitting at the dinner table where he had a clear view of the bathroom door. He had a sober, concerned look on his face and three bottles on the table in front of him. Neal sat down and examined the bottles: Gatorade, Advil, and the prescription cough syrup that was supposed to numb the pain in his throat.

Peter nudged the bottle of Gatorade in his direction. "Take small sips, okay?" He opened the huge bottle of Advil and tapped two tablets out into his hand. "And take these when you're ready. Save the cough syrup for last."

Neal nodded and followed instructions, taking small sips of the Gatorade until he felt like his stomach might be ready for the pills.

Peter sighed. "I thought we should wait to talk about this until you weren't so damn sick, but considering the look on your face when we walked in here I don't think that's going to work."

"What's not going to work?" Neal whispered.

"This whole not-talking thing we've been doing." Peter paused and cleared his throat. "I need you to know that I don't blame you for what happened to Elizabeth, for what could've happened. I'm not _at all_ happy with what you were doing, the information you kept from me, and it's going to take me a little while to get over that on a professional level. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

Neal nodded, though his head was spinning at the shock of Peter having this conversation with him.

"I don't blame you for what happened to El because I know that you never could have predicted the avalanche of trouble landing on her head. And because that was one of the hallmarks of your work, after all--all those years I was trying to track you down you might have left behind chaos and confusion and unpaid luxury hotel bills, but you never left a body count. You made sure that you got the money or the goods, but you also made sure that nobody got hurt, and if that hadn't been true I never would have allowed you to work with me in the first place."

Neal ducked his head and took a few more sips of the Gatorade before clearing his throat. He felt his hand shaking and clasped it more tightly around the plastic bottle. "Does El?"

"Does she blame you?" Peter met Neal's eyes, and then his face went soft. "No, she blames Keller. And I don't think she's too happy with Mozzie, but she doesn't blame you. She asked me to bring you here in the first place, when I told her how sick you are, but I told her I wasn't ready."

"I'll be okay, really, if you want to take me back to June's. I don't want--"

Peter put a hand on Neal's arm, stilling him. "I got ready. I'm ready now. And you're ready for bed; take your medicine and I'll get you settled in upstairs."

Neal took the ibuprofen with sips of Gatorade and then braced himself for a shot of the cough syrup. It was horrible, bitter and overly sweet at the same time, but he held it down and thought he could feel it cooling the pain in his throat already. He made his way upstairs with Peter dogging his steps. Peter showed him to the guest room, reminded him about the bathroom right across the hall, and gave him a plastic bowl to use if he felt sick and couldn't make it.

"Just rest," Peter said, and Neal climbed under the covers and stretched out in the crisp coolness, a contrast to the rumpled, sweaty sheets in his own apartment he hadn't managed to change in a week. "Rest," Peter said again, and his hand was a comforting weight on Neal's forehead. "We'll wake you up later for dinner."

\---

An uncertain amount of time later, Neal woke to the feeling of the world shifting underneath him, and he sat up with a gasp. The rapid change of position made his head ache, and he covered his eyes with both hands for a couple of breaths before dropping his hands and opening his eyes. El sat on the edge of the bed next to him, her face scrunched up with concern.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you like that."

"No, it's okay. I--" Neal didn't feel awake enough to be having this conversation, but there was no way he could sit there next to her and not say anything.

"Shh," she said as she held out a thermometer and stuck it in under his tongue.

He sat still, the words backing up on his tongue until the thermometer beeped and then pulled it out and looked at it. 102° He'd live. "I'm sorry for the part I played in leading Keller to you. I'm so sorry you got hurt. I don't know how I can--" Neal shook his head, out of words.

The corners of El's mouth turned down, and then she cupped her hand around the back of his neck and drew him closer until his head rested on her shoulder and she wrapped her other arm around his back. She felt so warm where he was cold now that he was half out from under the covers, and she even smelled warm, the lingering base notes of her perfume resinous and slightly spicy.

"Listen," she spoke into Neal's ear, "that asshole hurt me, but he hurt you too. We'll both be okay."

"Okay," Neal whispered into the darkness.

El withdrew her hands, and Neal sat up, shivering hard. "I guess I should've been giving you something for that fever instead of having a heart to heart." El smiled ruefully and reached over to the bedside table for the bottle of pills and yet another bottle of Gatorade. "Here, take these." She tapped out two pills into his hand and then opened the bottle of Gatorade. "You need to drink at least half of this and then at least one of these." She held up a plastic bottle of nutritional shake, vanilla flavor.

Neal's life was suddenly ruled by plastic bottles. He made his way through two-thirds of the bottle of electrolyte drink and all of the Ensure while El sat on the end of the bed with her legs folded under her and distracted him with the details of the newest event she was planning.

"Where's Peter?" Neal asked, realizing that he couldn't hear anybody else moving around in the house.

"He went into the office for a few hours, but he should be back soon."

Of course, Neal thought, Peter had spent most of the day ferrying him around when he had a lot to catch up on at work.

"I can see you feeling guilty again, and you can just stop. I'm glad you're here, and Peter and I worked it out--we'll switch off working at home the next few days until you're over the worst of this."

"You don't have to do that." Neal finished off the nutritional drink, glad he was finally done with it. His stomach felt over-full, and he was ready to shuffle across the hall to the bathroom and then go back to sleep.

"Satch can be good company, but he can't do much for you if you spike a fever. We don't need to talk about it, okay?" She took the empty bottle from his hand and picked up the bottle of cough syrup. "Just one more thing."

Neal swallowed the syrup and closed his eyes, repressing the immediate lurch of his stomach at the sharp taste. It lingered on his tongue and on his throat, thick and heavy, and he tried to swallow it back but he felt his stomach tensing up. He turned to climb out of bed, but El put her arm around his back and started moving her palm in soothing circles.

"Try and relax, Neal," she murmured. "Breathe slowly, you're okay." Neal felt the wide mouth of a bottle tap against his lips. "Here, take a sip, get the taste out of your mouth."

Neal held the bottom of the bottle and took a sip of the Gatorade. He held it in his mouth for a moment, swallowed it slowly, and his stomach started to go still. He opened his eyes and wiped at the sweat on his forehead. "I'm not taking any more of that cough syrup. I'd rather have my throat ache than--than that."

El sniffed the bottle of cough syrup and wrinkled her nose. "I don't blame you."

\---

The next two days went by in a haze of sleeping and waking up aching, too hot or too cold. Either Peter or El was always there with the thermometer and the never-ending supply of plastic bottles. With the vile cough syrup out of the picture, Neal didn't feel sick to his stomach, just not-hungry in a way he could ignore long enough to drink the shakes. By Thursday evening he felt well enough for a dinner of oatmeal and chilled peaches from a little plastic cup, the peaches soft and cool against his throat.

When he woke up Friday morning, Neal still felt tired and achy but he could swallow without wincing, and he thought his fever was mostly gone. He wandered across the hall to the bathroom and found his own robe hanging on the back of the door. As he walked down the stairs he heard Peter talking, and when he came around the corner he saw Peter sitting at the dining room table, his laptop open, files spread out next to it, his cell in hand.

Peter's eyes widened when he saw Neal, as if walking around was a miracle after the last few days, but then he shook his head, returning to the phone call. "Look," he said, sounding exasperated, "if they still have a problem with your expense report tell them to call me and we'll get it straight."

Neal walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Nothing looked especially appealing, so he just grabbed one of his shakes and went back to sit down across the table from Peter.

"Right," Peter said. "I'll tell him. Call me if you need anything before tomorrow." Peter put the phone down then looked appraisingly at Neal. "So, it lives."

"It lives and feels a lot better. I'll be fine if you need to go in to the office."

"Oh no, it's Friday and I got the go-ahead to work from home. If you think I'm going to squander this opportunity your brain must have gotten fried by that fever more than I thought." Peter took a drink of coffee and looked at Neal over the top of the mug. "By the way, Diana sends her well-wishes."

Neal felt embarrassed at the idea of everybody talking about him, so he just drank more of his shake.

"What do you think about breakfast? I was going to make some eggs and bacon, since El's not here to silently scold me about cholesterol."

"No bacon." Neal shook his head hard at the idea. "But I could eat an egg maybe. Some toast?"

"Coming right up." Peter stood up and walked to the fridge.

"Thank you," Neal said.

"It's really not a problem, I was going to cook anyway."

"No, I mean--Peter, _thank you_." Neal tried to make it clear with his voice that he meant everything: Peter coming to get him, taking him into his home, taking care of him.

Peter nodded, his eyes sober. "You're welcome. And you don't need to thank me again. Or El."

\---

The weekend that followed was strange but good. Neal was still exhausted, still weak in a way that made him feel vulnerable and on-edge, but was awake for enough of the day to get bored. Every time he suggested that it would be okay if he went back to June's Peter or El blew it off as if it wasn't even a consideration, and Neal didn't want to argue. Saturday evening, Neal sat in the armchair in the living room watching a movie with Peter and El--or rather, with Peter after El fell asleep ten minutes into the movie curled up with her bare feet on the couch, leaning against Peter.

"Is she really okay?" Neal whispered during a quiet scene in the movie.

Peter tilted his head to look at El, then shrugged the shoulder she wasn't sleeping against. "She has nightmares, but they don't seem as bad as they were. And she's talking to somebody. She's stronger than she looks."

"She looks pretty strong to me."

Peter just smiled and looked back at the TV.

On Sunday, El went into Manhattan for a few hours to manage an event, and when she came home she had a garment bag in hand--two of Neal's suits, plus shirts, ties, shoes and all of the other little accessories that went with them, including his hat.

Neal had been napping when she walked into the guest room but he sat up, grateful to see some of the trappings of his normal, healthy life. "Elizabeth, you raided my closet!"

"I did!" She grinned. "It was fun, too. I'd like to get a closet like that built for myself, but then there wouldn't be enough room left for the bedroom furniture."

"You could move to Connecticut, get a nice big house out in the suburbs and have all the closet space you want."

"Bite your tongue. Peter would probably like it, aside from the commute, but I love being in the city."

"Me, too," Neal agreed, thinking about how close he'd come to leaving it for good.

"I'm glad," El said, and Neal knew she was thinking about the same thing.

~~~

Peter came downstairs Monday morning to find Neal sitting at the dining table, dressed to the nines and clutching a mug of coffee as if it would help him look more energetic. "I don't think so," Peter said, heading into the kitchen for his own cup of coffee.

"I feel a lot better, Peter. I don't need to spend all day in bed like an invalid."

Neal did look better; his color was closer to normal, even if he still had shadows under his eyes and was slightly washed out, and his fever was more or less gone. On the other hand, he clearly needed more time and rest and good food to be healthy again, and now that he was back to eating actual food El had Plans-with-a-capital-P that Peter completely supported.

"You can't go back to work until you're cleared by a doctor, and your appointment is on Wednesday." Peter held up his hand as Neal opened his mouth with the expected rebuttal. "And do you really want to go back to June's and be alone there all day and night? Do you really think you're going to be up to running around inside your radius, getting into God knows what trouble?"

Neal closed his mouth like he'd been smacked, and Peter felt guilty. Ever so slightly guilty, but not enough to soften the blow.

"I just thought you might want me out of your hair now that I'm well on the way to recovery."

"You're not going to be in my hair that much. I'll be gone all day, and El will be in and out, but you'll have Satch to keep you company during the day. I know he'll be happy about that, especially if you feel up to taking him for a short walk every now and then."

"How short?"

Peter laughed. "I got the Marshals to move your radius here, one mile centered at this house. But I don't think you're going to be up for more than that anyway, not in the next few days."

"One mile? Is it going to stay one mile back in Manhattan?"

"Do you really want to press me about that?" Kramer had lobbied Peter to end the Criminal Informant situation and put Neal back in prison. He'd have something to say if he heard about Neal staying at the house, but Kramer didn't know everything. Peter had to believe that people could change, and that hope was sitting at his dining room table.

"No," Neal answered, "not really." And the really crazy thing was that Peter believed him.

The rest of the week went well. Peter suspected that Neal still slept much of the day, but in the evenings he was dressed in his version of casual--suit pants and shirt with no jacket or tie. The sharp bones of his face began to fade under a thin layer of flesh, and El took to smiling smugly as if she'd done it all herself; Peter liked that look on her, a lot.

On Friday, Peter left the office at 2pm to go pick up Neal and escort him to his doctor's appointment. Neal was clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, dressed in his sharpest suit and playing with his hat in the waiting room, but the doctor signed off on Neal returning to work--light duty, no field work for at least three weeks for fear of exploding his spleen. Clearance for regular duty would be approved pending another checkup after those three weeks were over. Neal chafed at the restriction, and Peter couldn't blame him; he could remember sitting out gym for a month in high school, his mother scolding him every time he started to roughhouse with his brother. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to let Neal get around the doctor’s order.

After the appointment, Peter took Neal and all of his clothes back to June's house. The lady of the manor was due back Saturday, and the staff were already back to work, getting the place ready for her arrival. The house was already far from the cold museum it had felt like when Peter attempted to drop Neal off after the hospital visit ten days ago, and if Neal wasn't quite running up the stairs with his usual verve he didn't need to stop and have a nap half-way up either.

\---

Over the weekend, Peter let Neal be, and spent the days with El, trying to erase some of the chaos of the previous few weeks. Satchmo moped around the house, missing his new daytime buddy, and Peter tried not to call him a traitor out loud.

Monday morning, Neal showed up in Peter's office looking well enough to at least pretend to be as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as usual, and Peter thought about the Monday two weeks ago when he'd seen that Neal was clearly not okay but had sent him back to his miniature dungeon anyway.

"Should I head back to my cold case closet?" Neal asked, no visible trace of bitterness. "Are the boxes still there?"

"Yes and no," Peter said, then corrected himself. "Actually, no and yes. The boxes are still there, and I'm going to have you keep working on them unless something else comes up that I need you for here in the office. I went over some of your notes, actually, and Diana and Clinton are working on leads to reopen a few of the files. However, I want you to set up shop down there." Peter pointed to an open desk in the bullpen, down on the floor within his line of sight, in the middle of agents and staff rather than stuck by himself in a room.

"You want all of those boxes crowded around that desk just so that you can keep an eye on me?" Neal looked like he wasn't too sure of the idea, but at the same time Peter thought he looked pleased; he was getting the idea that Neal didn't do well in isolation.

"No, not exactly. See that blond kid down there? His name is Cody, if you can believe that somebody named Cody is an adult, and he's what we call an intern. He'll be using a hand-truck to bring you boxes, which you are not to go fetch yourself because you're on light duty, remember?"

Neal's mouth twitched into a quick grin. "I remember."

"He'll bring up five boxes to get you started, and you just need to let him know when you need them swapped out. Now go give _Cody_ your request. I'll come get you when it's time to go get lunch."

"We're going to get lunch?"

"Until further notice. I need you cleared for fieldwork, after all, once your spleen stops being an IED. That okay with you?"

"Sounds good to me," Neal answered, his voice quiet. The he shook off the mood and grinned. "As long as I get to pick out the place."

Peter pointed to the door. "Out of my office! Back to work!"

"Glad to be back," Neal answered before turning to leave, and Peter believed he was telling the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger: Discussion/description of (unintentional) weight loss.


End file.
